bearings, gained
Over some kind of threshold we appoint to clocks, our lies become truth. Dreams, pursued, lived, dreamt
re-lived, told, and
given. Sometimes nutshells don’t open. What do cats return for? On the plains between the hills and
the sea, poppies bloom
for nothing else better to do. Every door slam contains some anger. A ship of fools contains much food,
water, no sexton.